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"The Prince of Pleasure's gotten this bold?!"
Eden caught a whiff of Slaanesh's cloying scent and frowned.
Was that accursed Chaos Power trying to corrupt the Emperor again?
Impossible. Even in a cloned body, the Emperor wouldn't be swayed so easily.
Unless… maybe She Who Thirsts just wanted to tease the galaxy's apex male—or get herself beaten for fun.
Zzzap—
The Emperor gathered sanctified psychic might; golden arcs of lightning crawled over his form as he braced for an attack at any second.
The Master of Mankind grew more wary by the heartbeat.
This time there had been no omen, no overt taint of Chaos—he feared some esoteric assault was in play.
When facing the Dark Gods, you cannot relax for even a breath, or you risk tumbling into an endless abyss.
Ten millennia ago, the Emperor had foreseen disaster and prepared countermeasures.
Yet all those efforts still came to ruin.
A hard ember of anger smoldered in his eyes.
Humanity had only just seized a sliver of advantage by taking the Commorragh webway nexus. There could be no backsliding now.
Commorragh belongs to Mankind. Any enemy of Man who reaches for it will be struck with unrestrained force!
While Eden and the Emperor kept their guard up, a smug, tinny vox-recording cut in.
"My Lord Savior, surprised? Here's your… present! Hahahahaha!"
Archmagos Kaul's pre-recorded voice all but squealed with excitement: "By the Machine God! The silicone-construct tech you kept pestering me about has broken through—hyper-realistic fidelity achieved.
"Per your original spec, I even commissioned the Cults of Excess to help with the design. We perfectly reproduced every scene and persona, including the special, ahem, forbidden figures you insisted on.
"If this meets your approval, perhaps authorize a larger budget line for my fuel-drink research.
"Please—enjoy!"
The recording ended.
The profane pink lights grew more suggestive. Music of indulgence swelled. Steam—sweetly scented—rolled across the chamber.
Shapely silhouettes emerged within the mist until the place felt like a palace of hedonism.
Tss—
Eden drew a sharp breath.
Right. This… really was something he'd asked Kaul to make.
Back when the Savior's Domain had obtained a certain blasphemous silicone-construct technology, Eden had repurposed it as covert disguise/masquerade gear for agents, spies, and missionary saints.
The tech advanced and advanced, until the constructs could almost pass for true human beings—
Even… more comfortable than flesh.
On a whim, Eden had sent Kaul a "sample brief" to make something fun and exciting.
Of course it was inherently proscribed—never to be deployed across the Savior's Domain or the wider Imperium.
He'd only wanted a private taste of his realm's R&D progress.
Then war and work piled up. He'd forgotten the whole thing.
But the oily old cogboys had actually realized his entire concept!
The scented mist thinned, and first came a troupe of "Old Terra M2 era" Eastern courtesans—antique grace, captivating charm.
They played and danced, smiled like flowers, and threw sly glances.
By look, touch, and warmth these silicone homunculi were indistinguishable from real people, enhanced by simple weak-AI routines.
No true selfhood, but realistic enough to fool the eye and ear.
They moved with such life that, unless you scrutinized them, you'd think them flesh and blood.
As the fog peeled back further, a wave of classic 2D waifus filed in.
A chorus of feminine voices rose—each timbre distinct.
Every last one fixed her gaze on the Savior; poses and lines delivered just right.
Most were beloved heroines from Eden's past life anime and games.
Mature dommes, lolis, pure maidens, yandere, tsundere—white hair, pink hair; thigh-highs, black stockings, sailor uniforms, skintight leathers—everything.
Each persona ran like the original—not merely similar, but dead-on.
The Emperor stared, face full of question marks, at such exotic "culture."
He'd never seen anything like it. Perhaps this was some fashion native to the Savior's Domain.
A tiny vampire loli bared sharp canines and smirked. "Let me enjoy this… all by myself."
A certain magical warrior struck a famous pose. "In the name of the moon, I'll punish you!"
"Big brother's request—if it's an illustration commission, I can accept."
"You're all hopeless—absolutely hopeless!"
"Will you honor me with a dance, and witness eternity in this fleeting moment…?" Lady Kamisato of Inazuma curtsied with an inviting hand.
And then came scenes even less fit for minors.
Suddenly, a white-haired, shut-in homebody heroine yelped, clapping both hands over her chest.
Flushing scarlet, eyes swimming, she shouted at Eden, "You idiot—pervert—creep!"
"Ugh… I'm going to die of secondhand embarrassment…"
Not far away, Eden hadn't lifted a finger—and his whole body had gone rigid.
He'd only wanted to reminisce about his old homeland's pop culture. Who could have guessed his tastes would be… exposed like this?
Mortifying.
Then again, in the absurd universe of Warhammer, this hardly ranked.
Everyone has their awkward stories. Even the Emperor has apocrypha about… uh… "side businesses."
Some rumors even insist He bartered "services" in Commorragh for hints of Golden Throne tech.
There are "records," tales, and illustrations—vivid and lurid.
So… probably fine.
Eden risked a glance toward the Emperor—then sweat sprang from his brow.
Oh, throne…
The Emperor's section featured local "specialties": silicone constructs as angels, Sisters of Battle, Ministorum priestesses, Tech-Priestesses—
Even several alien "beauties."
"By the Emperor, feel the ardor of our souls…"
"Chitter-chitter-chitter—!"
Now Battle Sisters, priestesses, Aeldari maidens, and even a coquettish Tyranid "bug-girl" pressed close around the Emperor, stroking his armor, writhing and preening.
It was blasphemy at its purest.
The sort of tableau that would make an Ecclesiarchy confessor or an Inquisitor faint dead away—and then order every last cyclone torpedo launched in cleansing wrath.
Utter blasphemy!
Eden inhaled through his teeth and looked away.
His soul had gone a little numb.
Especially under the Emperor's iron gaze as power began to gather.
"Emmm…"
Eden wiped at his cold sweat. "If I say this is… a special endurance drill to challenge personal weak points—would you believe me?"
"What do you think?"
The Emperor nearly laughed—from rage.
Everyone knew how He despised heresy and xenos. And this Savior boy, in private, was this indulgent? Such behavior ill suited a ruler of the Imperium.
As he condemned Eden, the Master of Mankind studiously forgot his own youthful escapades.
Psssh—
A pink miasma puffed forth, drawing both their eyes.
"More, more—sweeter the pain, the finer the pleasure!
"Let every second of realspace become an eternal crescendo…"
Silk curtains parted over a carefully staged dais, and a silicone idol in Slaanesh's shape stepped into view—enough to snare any male's heart.
Blasphemy of blasphemies—and dangerously so.
"Cursed, black-hearted cog-grease peddlers," Eden growled, "ruining my reputation like this."
He had to admit: Kaul had skill—translating Eden's spec into something this close to the Prince of Pleasure yet without a whiff of actual corruption.
But the execution? Sloppy.
Plans had changed—and they'd failed to relocate the whole suite.
"You little wretch!"
Power thrummed under the Emperor's skin; his fists clenched hard enough to groan his gauntlets.
"Alright, alright…"
Eden threw up his hands. "I admit it's a private hobby—with a teensy risk."
He winced. "We may have to purge the lot of it. Unless Your Majesty likes it—in which case, perhaps we keep a set.
"After all, back in the day, you—"
He didn't finish.
A hammerblow of holy light ripped across the chamber.
…
Beyond, machinery thundered in ceaseless cadence; gears meshed in ritual rhythm.
On the platform outside the Black Throne's palace—
A light wind drifted by; above, the Warp's dark red pall roiled like a whirlpool, and within it, one could almost glimpse a golden sun.
The Emperor's sacred radiance, holding Chaos at bay.
At the platform's lip stood Jaghatai Khan, White Scars Primarch, chin tilted to the heavens—just a touch forlorn.
He was still nursing the psychic bruises from the Emperor's recent, blistering tongue-lashing—a wound that would take time to heal.
Then he sensed it.
Boom—
A psychic detonation boomed from the throne-hall.
A moment later, a figure rimmed in golden arcs of lightning came flying out and cratered the platform.
"Brother Eden, what in all storms happened to you?"
The Khan glanced down at the Savior and nearly burst out laughing—just a hint of schadenfreude.
When he had been roasted to tears by the Emperor, Eden had laughed from the sidelines and quietly recorded the holo for his collection.
"It's nothing."
Eden rose as if nothing had happened, dusted himself off, and deadpanned, "Air was stuffy inside. Thought I'd step out for a breeze."
Ignoring the Khan's pointed smirk, he lifted his eyes to the sky.
Then he pinged Archmagos Kaul: this cycle's special-projects budget was cut in half.
Over Kaul's theatrical lamentations, Eden ordered him to build an entirely new suite of silicone constructs and deliver it to Eden's sanctum.
If Eden's mood improved later, perhaps the budget would, too.
In any case, this novel heresy-tech warranted a thorough inspection by the Savior—so he could properly critique it.
"The Emperor… is there truly a way back for Him?"
The Khan sighed at last, voicing the dread he'd learned from recent prophecies of a "Dark King."
Eden's face tightened. "No crash today. Beyond that… it's hard to say. There should still be a path to set Him right."
Things were not good. Even His personality was fraying—splitting.
In Eden's company, the Emperor's temperament kept… shifting—like conversing with different eras of the same man.
The carefree daredevil of youth; the ruthless, results-first tyrant of the Great Crusade.
And the failed guardian chained to the Golden Throne: kind yet lonely, regretful—shot through with a god's coldness.
Eden could feel it: the Emperor's humanity and divinity were fusing—then tearing apart—then fusing again.
Hence why, once He'd had a voice-amplifier fitted, He'd summoned the Khan and the Custodes and scorched them alive with public reprimand, without sparing a shred of face.
Back in M30, He'd forced Primarchs to kneel in public more than once.
Then, like a grumpy granddad, He'd sit and chat with Webby, the tiny "Machine-Goddess" mascot—letting the little pipsqueak's antics wring out a laugh.
Or He'd throw on an alias and, like a terminally online contrarian, rip Roboute Guilliman's theses on the noosphere with relentless, point-blank mockery.
All of that… was good. It meant His humanity endured, however jumbled.
He remained a living Man—capable of human feeling.
But at times, the Emperor's divinity bled through, chilling the marrow.
Eden might joke around with Him, but the pressure was crushing.
Every so often a breath from Him felt darker and more terrible than anything the Chaos Gods exuded—pitiless and cold.
The godhead buried deepest in His psyche—the Dark King—spoke of annihilation without cause or aim.
As if, with the next breath, He could extinguish Eden—and all Humanity.
The Emperor was right.
Humanity's greatest existential threat, right now, was the Emperor Himself—and it had to be solved.
Eden's heart grew leaden. The urgency dwarfed even a Chaos incursion.
We're talking about the Emperor.
Still—there was a route through.
If religious reform advanced, if the Holy Spires project rose sky-high, and if the Golden Throne could be repaired and refit, the Emperor might yet return to the true path.
Rather than slough off His humanity and become a full Warp god—sitting at the same table as the Dark Gods.
But the future refuses prophecy.
The Warp shifts by the second—catastrophe could flower without warning. And Eden couldn't see what the next stage held.
He could only pray Games Workshop's latest financials looked good—no "bold" corporate stunts, please.
He skimmed upcoming or ongoing events in his mind: the Lion's return, Angron's renewed rampage, upheaval around Vigilus…
Most vexing of all would be the Silent King's next moves.
Realspace foes were harder to kill than Warp fiends.
Chaos could be burned back by the Emperor's holy sun—but realspace enemies demanded guns, steel, and logistics.
Especially the Silent King—who helped ignite the War in Heaven, faced the Old Ones, and shattered Star Gods.
Yes, Szarekh's stance toward Humanity had grown ambiguous under the pressure of the Great Devourer.
But his endgame remained: resolve the existential crisis, restore the Triarch, reclaim the galaxy.
Fresh war-zone dispatches said he'd formally rescinded the "Law of Honored Battle."
He proclaimed Humanity's baseness—no longer worthy of respect or mercy.
All weapons and methods, however ignoble, would be unleashed in this extermination war to cleanse the galaxy of vermin.
He had chosen to break Mankind first, to flaunt his might and mandate.
He'd already dealt the Imperium several grave defeats.
The Savior's Domain had listed the Silent King as a priority war target and had begun preparations.
But with the Emperor's condition worsening, the Domain could no longer pour oceans of resources into a brand-new front.
Roboute Guilliman's Indomitable Crusade fleets and local forces would have to hold for now.
The Domain's core mission had shifted: rebuild and refit Commorragh's webway city and bring it online.
Use the web of routes to connect the Imperium end-to-end—forge Humanity's commercial heart and logistics hub in the galaxy.
More importantly, Eden could leverage that hub to vacuum up resources at breakneck speed.
Then, roll out continent-sized Mechanicus projects across the Imperium, raising Holy Spires in sector after sector—to vent the Emperor-sun's unimaginable tides of faith-energy.
Keep the Emperor's humanity from drowning—keep the Dark King from being born.
The Spires would shelter worlds in sanctified power, easing Warp erosion—two birds with one prayer.
And the new hub would let the Imperium shuffle materiel faster, fueling fronts across the stars.
With Titan God-Machines and tidal barrages of artillery, they'd claw back more worlds.
Weapons and supplies would no longer run dry; the soldiers of Man could finally cut loose.
Humanity would find the gears of growth again.
In short, webway-building was the Imperium's next keystone—an echo of the Emperor's dream from ten millennia past—
Only now on a scale He never dared: thousands upon thousands of times grander than those shabby Terran tunnels.
It was enough to make the Old Man grin from ear to ear.
Side by side, Eden and the Khan took the steps downward, hashing through the next operational steps for the Commorragh webway city.
Eden's posture was a little hunched… and his shoulder looked odd.
"Your wounds haven't healed?"
The Khan frowned. By aura alone Eden seemed fine. Why that posture?
As if something heavy were pressing him down.
He tensed. Some Chaos hex?
The Savior was now the Imperium's second keystone after the Emperor—xenos knives and heretic bullets would hunt him ceaselessly.
"I'm fine. Just… feel it in the shoulders."
Eden rolled them and sighed long.
"Right now, the five Segmentae's million civilized worlds—and the lives of uncounted trillions—rest on this Savior's shoulders. It's… a lot of weight."
(End of Chapter)
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